


All Apologies

by justacookieofacumberbatch (buffyholic)



Series: 221b Con Commissions [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s02e02 The Hounds of Baskerville, M/M, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-16
Updated: 2016-03-16
Packaged: 2018-05-27 00:40:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6262624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buffyholic/pseuds/justacookieofacumberbatch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How might the fight in <i>Hounds</i> have ended if John and Sherlock had been able to get a double room?</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Apologies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lunadax](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunadax/gifts).



> Written from a prompt by [lunadax](http://lunadax.tumblr.com) to help me pay for 221b Con.
> 
> Do you want one for yourself? [Send me an ask](http://justacookieofacumberbatch.tumblr.com/ask) on Tumblr or email me at justacookieofacumberbatch[at]gmail[dot]com. (I recommend email.) Commissions are $10 for approximately 1,000 words.

“Sherlock, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” So much for the pleasant buzz that John had worked so hard to cultivate.

Sherlock paused, his seat and one leg on the bed and one hand holding the covers aloft. “I’m getting into bed.”

John huffed, rolling onto his back and staring at the ceiling as if it would reply to his look with _I don’t know what he’s thinking either._ “What could possibly possess you into thinking that’s a good idea?”

Sherlock slid his other leg onto the bed and let the covers drop. “I’m tired.”

“Then sleep on the floor.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “We’re not married. You can’t kick me out of bed because we had a fight.”

“Oh yes I can.” John snatched the pillow from Sherlock’s side and flung it to the floor.

Sherlock, not getting the hint--or, more likely, ignoring it--rolled onto his stomach, his torso hanging half off the bed as he retrieved the pillow. He threw the pillow back to its spot with similar ire, as if he had the right, and shuffled over onto his back. In true dramatic fashion, his head thumped into the pillow with much more force than necessary, making the stuffing billow on either side.

“Get out of this bed, Sherlock.”

Sherlock wriggled his head against the pillow, wiggling his toes out from under the covers. “No.”

“Jesus Christ,” John muttered, flopping down onto his own pillow. The nerve of him. Typical. Sherlock could never admit regret. It was against his DNA, but John would be damned if he was going to put up with it this time. After all they’d been through together, he’d had the nerve to John they weren’t even _friends_? Fuck that.

John lashed out, shoving the heels of both hands against the side of Sherlock’s ribs. Unfortunately, despite his lean appearance, Sherlock’s height also gave him a few pounds on John, and John ended up pushing himself towards the edge of the bed more than Sherlock. With a grunt, he anchored himself on the headboard. His feet shot out, aiming for Sherlock’s thigh, but Sherlock was too fast. He pulled his knees to his chest, making the covers fly.

John’s toes glanced of Sherlock’s arse. Before he could recover, he felt Sherlock’s vice-grip on his wrist. Sherlock wrenched his hands away from the headboard. John ripped his arms away. He could hear Sherlock’s knuckles cracking--served him right--but Sherlock’s hands were right back on John’s forearms in the blink of an eye. This time, Sherlock put his full weight behind them, and John’s arms flattened against the bed. _Fucking gravity._

“Are we calm now?” Sherlock asked, shifting to sit on John’s stomach.

“Piss off.”

“For God’s sake,” Sherlock sighed. “Fine. I’m sorry. Happy now?”

Even through his anger, John couldn’t stop a guffaw from bursting out his mouth. “Seriously? You call that an apology?”

Sherlock’s eyelids narrowed. “How much have you had to drink?”

“What does that have to do with anything?” John squirmed in Sherlock’s grip, pushing himself up the bed.

“It would help explain your behavior.” Sherlock’s arse met with John’s groin, and they both froze. 

_Oh God, don’t do it. Don’t get hard right now._

Sherlock’s face lit up like the top of an ambulance, and John felt like crawling under the biggest rock he could find. They had walked by some good ones earlier. Where were those again? Maybe if he could concentrate on how to get back to the boulders, he wouldn’t…

John’s cock twitched.

Sherlock’s eyes went wide, but he didn’t move. He just blinked at John’s forehead for far too long, his body still frozen in place, his grip still firm on John’s arms. Maybe John could just throw him off and escape back to the bar. He could doze in a chair until morning.

But then, Sherlock shifted his hips, sliding and pressing the cleft of his arse against John’s cock. John could say that he tried to slither down the bed, tried to move away, ignored his body’s instincts in favor of the reasonable and rational, but that would be a dirty lie. If anything, he moved closer, bending his knees and giving Sherlock a nice nest to sink into.

Sherlock shimmied, making John gasp and arch against Sherlock’s grip. If ever there were a time to curse John’s transport, this was it. John’s erection was no longer threatening to make an appearance, It burst on the scene with triumphant fanfare. A trumpet blast wouldn’t have made it more obvious.

With another shimmy, Sherlock smirked. “Does this mean I’m forgiven?”

“No.”

“Well, then”--Sherlock pressed his arse into the cradle of John’s thighs--”what will it take?”

John’s fingers opened and closed where they were pinned as he tried not to cant his hips. Wait. What did Sherlock say? “Sorry?”

“Your current state suggests that a sexual favor would not go amiss. So, perhaps if I sucked you off?”

Oh God, Sherlock saying those words could make a man go blind, and although John’s cock was very excited at the prospect, John’s quickly shrinking rational brain wasn’t so sure. “Do you want to?”

“I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t.”

“Would you do it if I wasn’t mad at you?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “If you weren’t mad at me, we wouldn’t be in this position.”

_Jesus._ “That’s not the point, Sherlock.”

“Then what is the point?”

“I don’t want you to do it just to get back in my good graces.”

Sherlock released John’s wrists to cross his own arms over his chest. “What would be a suitable reason for you?”

“Because you like me? Because you’re attracted to me? Because you want to?”

“Good,” Sherlock said, rising up on his knees and reaching for John’s pyjama bottoms. “Then we don’t have a problem.”

John lifted his hips, letting Sherlock pull the clothing down his thighs. Sherlock licked his lips, and John mirrored the action. Jesus Christ, was this really happening?

Sherlock tossed John’s pyjama bottoms and pants aside and settled on his stomach between John’s legs. God, what a sight. And Sherlock’s breath on his groin made him shake with anticipation. Even the weight of his gaze was palpable. He was probably deducing every move that would drive John wild, and wasn’t that just plain overwhelming.

“What does this mean for us?” John asked, and cursed himself the moment the words escaped. Stupid brain getting in the way of his body.

Sherlock huffed. “We can talk about that later. I’m trying to concentrate.”

“Right. Yes. Fine. Of course.” John took a deep breath and did his best to relax, an effort that was a short-lived failure as Sherlock’s lips glided over John’s glans before John’s breath could fully leave his lungs. His lips were soft and slick, his tongue a study in perfect plush precision.

_This_ , he thought, _was going to be the beginning of a beautiful… something or other_.


End file.
